More Than A Magazine, A Movement
Nearly 50 years after Roe came, it went. The Dobbs decision brought a devastating reversal—nut it simultaneously ushered in a moment akin to 1972 … the opportunity to reimagine bodily autonomy and build something better.
And now, in 2026, we have begun to see glimmers of such vision emerge in the law by way of more expansive court rulings and bolder legislation.
It’s back-to-school season, and besides exams, essays and job applications, college students have another threat to worry about: sexual assault. As many U.S. universities start their fall semesters, we’re heading into the “Red Zone”—the high-risk period on college campuses from now through Thanksgiving break, when over 50 percent of all campus sexual assaults occur.
But many students arrive on campus without having received the sex education that could help prepare them to navigate consent, communication and sexual relationships. A recent survey from college sexual assault prevention nonprofit It’s On Us found that more than two-thirds of men now in college never received formal sex education in high school.
Millions of U.S. high schoolers lack comprehensive, inclusive sex education—or receive no sex education at all—leaving too many without meaningful instruction on consent and communication before they enter college. Today, 36 states and the District of Columbia require schools to teach sex ed. But not all require curricula to cover basics such as consent and contraception, and some do not even mandate that sex education taught in schools be medically accurate.
And instead of closing those gaps, the Trump administration is making them worse. Its attacks on public school sex ed include cutting millions of dollars in funding for community sex education and teen pregnancy prevention programs, while encouraging organizations to rewrite their sex ed programs to promote pregnancy and parenthood.
News of Lindsay Clancy’s triple-murder trial is flooding the Internet, and with it, conversations about postpartum depression. In January 2023, Lindsay Clancy killed her 5-year-old, 3-year-old and 8-month-old children before attempting suicide, which left her paralyzed from the waist down. The facts of their deaths are not up for debate in this Plymouth trial, but whether or not the severe postpartum psychosis, clinical depression and bipolar disorder Clancy was experiencing meant she was criminally insane.
Clancy’s mother-in-law explained Clancy was “begging for help” right before she killed her children. In December, just weeks before, she told her mother and then-husband Patrick (the couple are now divorced) that “she had thoughts of harming the children.”
The case has laid bare the failures of a U.S. mental healthcare system that did not protect Clancy or her children, and still leaves countless new mothers without adequate care.
While Clancy stands trial, people are mourning the loss of Hayden Panettiere, a child star who had long struggled with postpartum depression following the 2014 birth of her daughter, Kaya, and experienced domestic violence from her ex-boyfriend Brian Hickerson. This week, news outlets revisited Panettiere’s allegation that Neutrogena (one of her long-time partners) attempted to end her contract after she spoke honestly about her postpartum depression.
Jacqueline Lamba lived in the shadow of her French poet husband and was essentially erased from modern art history. A groundbreaking biography Jacqueline Lamba: The Forgotten Surrealist (published April 7, 2026, by Merrell Publishers) from art historian and author Salomon Grimberg, repositions Lamba as a major creative force in her own right, while uncovering a previously unknown love affair between Lamba and Frida Kahlo.
After his 35-year-old wife bled to death from a miscarriage in a Houston-area hospital, a Texas father is suing—and taking her story to Capitol Hill.
“Choosing to bring new life into the world shouldn’t be a death sentence,” insisted Michelle Maloney, the San Antonio attorney working to bring justice to Texas widower Hope Ngumezi and his two young sons.
Three years ago, in June 2023, Hope’s beloved wife Porsha was happily expecting the couple’s third child until she began to miscarry at 11 weeks pregnant. The healthy 35-year-old finance manager for a charter school went to the emergency room at Houston Methodist Sugar Land Hospital, just 10 minutes from her home in suburban Houston.
Both she and Hope were certain that she would receive the safe and critical medical care that she needed as she passed fetal tissue and blood clots the size of grapefruits at the hospital. An ultrasound confirmed that she had partially miscarried and that her fetus no longer had a heartbeat. But the heavy bleeding didn’t stop.
Still, the hospital’s OB-GYN, who examined her just once, moved Porsha from the ER—where staff were equipped to respond to emergencies—to a regular floor, where she received less monitoring. Porsha arrived at the hospital at 3:37 p.m. By 2 a.m., she began gasping for air and within minutes, she had died of hemorrhage.
A dozen doctors who reviewed her medical records for ProPublica, which broke the story about her death, said that Porsha should have urgently received a very simple and standard procedure for a miscarriage—a D&C (dilation and curettage). The 10-15 minute D&C would have removed all remaining fetal tissue in her womb, which her uterus was trying to expel with heavy contractions and bleeding. The procedure would have stopped the bleeding.
“The poor thing bled to death for lack of a D&C. It’s atrocious,” Austin OB-GYN Nancy Binford told Courier Texas.
This midterm season, as courts and legislatures chip away at who gets to have a voice in our elections and governance, shoring up our democratic infrastructure is more important than ever. An unlikely tool in the arsenal of democracy? Care.
When Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids intensified in Minnesota this year, fear spread through neighborhoods almost overnight. Families stopped going to work. Parents kept children home. Immigrant-owned businesses lost customers. Communities began retreating from public life.
Organizers responded quickly with a clear request. They asked people to care for one another.
Moms especially jumped in, providing rides to school, groceries delivered to families afraid to leave home, emergency rent assistance, childcare and meals. Neighbors checked in on each other. They created secure networks to communicate needs and organize responses.
They also reveal something much bigger. Minnesota is becoming a case study in what communities across the country are confronting as federal policies reshape daily life.
While federal policy creates these structural hurdles, the Minnesota model proves they are not insurmountable. But Minnesota offers another lesson. The same networks of care that help families survive also help communities organize. When people know one another through acts of mutual support, they build relationships that make collective action possible. They become more likely to solve problems together, advocate together and defend one another when public institutions fall short.
Roughly one in six men in the United States experience sexual abuse before age 18, yet many never disclose their abuse because of stigma and rigid expectations about masculinity.
As a survivor, I learned early that being a boy, and later a man, meant burying fear, sadness and vulnerability. My silence equated with strength, control and survival—a lesson reinforced by male role models and peers.
Let’s face it, most sexual violence is committed by men, but women and girls are not its only victims. Men and boys experience sexual violence, too. Although it’s not talked about as much, we are survivors too.
So, let’s talk about it—to heal ourselves and help others.
My journey has given me a unique opportunity to help others while continuing to heal myself. I believe I am meant to use my lived experience as a tool for good in the world. I’ve learned that many boys and men carry similar stories, often in isolation, often convinced that no one would believe them or care. Masculinity did not protect me; it protected the silence around abuse. And I learned that healing required not becoming “less of a man,” but redefining what being a man could mean.
“Why would I Google it when I can just ask ChatGPT for exactly what I am looking for?”
A 16-year-old asked me this during a recent conversation with Black adolescents about where they turn for health information. Her answer was striking, but hardly surprising.
As traditional sex education faces cuts in schools and reproductive health services become harder to access—particularly for young people of color in underserved communities—adolescents are increasingly looking elsewhere for answers. AI chatbots offer something schools, clinics and even trusted adults often do not: information that feels immediate, private and judgment-free.
Over the years, I’ve immersed myself in the stories of other Black women, not only as literary models, but as encouragement that the world might actually want to hear my story, my lessons and my truth. These books reminded me I am part of a long lineage of brave Black women who decided to leave home in search of adventure and themselves. The following memoirs, anthologies and novels explore movement across borders while grappling with history, race, identity, belonging, faith, joy and ultimately, home.
Across the U.S., recent federal rollbacks of rights have led to a rising awareness of the importance of state courts. These once under-the-radar races are increasingly attracting attention within and beyond state borders—and bringing in significant outside spending. Each state has its own constitution and high court to interpret it, giving state courts enormous influence over individual rights.
That influence has become especially clear since Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022, as advocates have increasingly turned to state courts for protections on abortion rights, voting rights, redistricting and other civil liberties. The most recent cycle of judicial elections was the most expensive ever.
Now, 32 states are holding state supreme court elections in 2026, with 63 of the nation’s 344 state supreme court seats up for election. The outcomes could alter the ideological makeup of courts in states currently in play and lay the groundwork for future shifts in control.
This November, money, turnout and heightened attention to once-obscure judicial races will collide across the country—and help determine the reach of fundamental rights for years to come.
In the pivotal electoral battleground state of North Carolina, Justice Anita Earls’ campaign to hold onto her state Supreme Court seat has been called “one of the most important races in the state” by the North Carolina AFL-CIO, and “one of the most-watched statewide races in this year’s midterm elections,” per Axios. Earls is currently the only Black justice on the North Carolina Supreme Court. Before beginning her tenure in 2019, she was a civil rights attorney focused on voting rights, education, employment, criminal law and First Amendment issues.